8. Encounter With My Guides

Jackie realizes that her writing is unique and doesn't need to be mainstream. She visits sacred territories in meditation where she meets her spirit guides. Jackie experiences the ups and downs of living in a couple. In solitude, she foresees a glimpse of her future.

Music: Mumbai Rains by Rahul Popawala

Transcript

Yoni,

My sacred space,

Encounter with my guides,

Warning,

The following reading deals with sensitive issues related to profound trauma.

Dear listeners,

Be aware that this talk may trigger emotional reactions,

So listen closely to your feelings and don't hesitate to ask for the help you need.

Yannick Villeneuve,

Author and story healer.

September 22nd,

2021,

Autumn,

The great life-dead-life cycle.

The rabbit gave way to the baby,

The child gave way to the mother.

It was an obligatory step.

We have to let go of the old to receive the new.

I have control over my actions,

But not over their repercussions.

I can write as much as I want.

I can believe in my talent.

No one can take that away from me.

But my efforts are not a cause-and-effect relationship.

I need to understand this to have courage to continue the courage of my voice.

It's a unique one that doesn't appeal to the majority.

My path is outside the norm,

Outside convention.

It's normal that my tribe is similar.

Therefore,

I learn to follow the steps without wanting the result right away.

I remind myself that the envelope I received in meditation bears the number 50.

And on my childhood drawing,

I speak into a microphone in front of an old woman.

Two years separate me from this great reveal.

It's like a stone thrown into a pool of water.

Before I reach the shore,

I have to start from the center.

I should be happy to be quiet here with my notebook,

My pencils,

My papers,

All by myself.

I'm a free spirit,

Liberated from my history,

Doing my own thing in my backyard.

To get out of the darkness,

Brought to light by the full moon,

I went to wash my roots.

I went to the river,

Took off my rubber boots,

Put my feet on the rocks and in the water.

I went to dance the Bhangra on the biggest stone in the middle of the river and let the wind blow through me.

The water carried it all down to the leg,

And I felt the energy of the sacred water enter through my feet and hands.

I took a photo of the rock trapped in the roots of the tree growing over it,

An analogy of my morning pain.

When I felt recharged,

I set off again to fetch water from the spring.

But at the corner of the bridge,

There was a van parked and people outside,

Women,

Men and children,

All Sikhs people.

It filled my heart with joy to see them at the crossing of the rivers and to have confirmation from the spirits of the elders that I was standing on a special,

Sacred place.

Perhaps it was the site of powwows or potlucks before it became the parking lot for snow mobile guys.

I didn't dare to stop to talk to them,

Contenting myself with waving.

I went back home with my 20 liters of water and the feeling that I'd done my cleansing ceremony.

September 23.

Willy came to meet us in bed,

Giving us an early start to the day.

We changed our routine a little,

And now that the full moon has passed,

We're back in la joie de vivre.

Phil told me that he felt supported in his efforts because of my gardening,

My organizations,

And he encourages me to continue.

I did a tarot reading this morning in a different way,

A six-card draw,

Only with the major arcana in the shape of a pyramid.

The emperor was upstairs,

Below,

Two cards in reverse,

The empress on my left and the world on my right.

On the bottom,

Still upside down,

The fool,

The moon,

And the star.

I see Phil in this emperor at the top of my construction.

I'm the empress,

My book on my lap,

Organizing the world we live in.

I'm supported by my past,

This fool who goes on a journey with his gray cat,

His wound and his bundle.

I pursue my intuition with the moon,

And I walk towards my destiny,

Naked in nature,

Where I pour the fluids from my urns into the rivers,

To the sound of the birds.

I have the right to be a writer.

I have the right to dance in the center of this perfect world.

I am connected and supported by my intuition and my destiny.

I light up the world.

I light up my night.

But looking at this draw,

With all the cards upside down except for the emperor,

I feel like a warning that my world could be shaken up.

September 24.

I do meditation instead of taking medication.

I spoke with my aunt,

The Buddhist.

I'm lucky to have her listening.

I tell her about my spiritual discoveries,

And she understands me,

Having made the journey before me.

She'd like to see me,

But I don't have any plans to travel east,

Nor do I have the freedom of activity.

Without my own money,

It's hard to take the plunge.

Even though I know Phil would pay,

It's not a trip I want to make without him.

Plus,

I have to go at the right time,

When the gardens are resting in the dead of winter,

And there are always the chickens,

Jean-Charles and Willy,

To take care of.

Phil has been saying some very hurtful things to me this week.

The first of his comments was about my writing.

He told me to concentrate on gardening rather than thinking of myself as publishable,

That I don't have enough practice to compare with the professionals,

The educated,

And the literature graduates.

His second comment was about my dry pastel drawing.

He said,

Looking at my work,

Hmm,

You don't draw fast.

Also,

He added that my art was okay for me,

But no more.

I know I'm not great,

But I took his remark my old way,

Saying to myself,

It's okay,

I won't show you anymore,

So I'll avoid bad reviews.

I know it's not a good idea,

But for the moment,

I'm feeling hurt and taking it a bit,

Personally.

To make matters worse,

When I mentioned this morning that I wanted to wash the windows in the house,

He pointed out a drip of paint,

Pleading that the stain had been there for a long time,

As if I'd never washed the windows since I arrived four years ago.

My nerves were shot,

And I retorted that not only had I washed his windows every change of season,

But that he'd also hired his daughter to do it before I arrived.

My joie de vivre and beautiful smile were wiped away.

I felt really insulted.

Suddenly,

I became a bad writer and illustrator,

And not even a good housekeeper.

The accumulation of his comments really took a toll on my identity.

I felt reduced to nothing.

Seeing the change in my attitude,

He picked himself with a few gentle comments,

But the knives were still in my back.

I couldn't wait to be alone with my wounds to lick.

I think back to my call with my aunt.

I told her about my intuitive analysis and observations of her mother.

Aside from her cooking skills,

Which I had underestimated,

I had a good grasp of my grandmother's essence and pain.

The value of women in the 1920s was practically nil.

If something bad happened,

Like getting pregnant or being mugged,

It was automatically their fault,

Being called a bitch,

And above all,

Having the burden of carrying the family's dishonor in front of the neighborhood.

In a photo taken in her living room,

Sitting upright in her leather armchair,

I can see the death in her eyes,

But above all,

The desire to present herself well,

To save face and appearances.

According to the Cambridge Dictionary,

A bitch is an offensive word for a woman who is considered to be unpleasant or unkind,

Not something nice to carry around.

I can imagine the guilt and the feelings of helplessness of being born a woman,

The suffering experienced from the moment you leave the womb and for the rest of your life.

September 26th,

2021 While doing my Monday housework,

I danced and sang as I swept the floor.

As I let Willie in,

I took the opportunity to read the four points of the compass.

Getting ready for my writing session,

I find my cat lying on my journal.

We cuddled for as long as it took,

And then I was able to put my meditation into play.

I'm continuing my introspective work,

Focusing in particular on my ancestors and the land my mother inhabited.

I went to her childhood village on the grounds of the house my grandparents lived in.

It was full of flowers and tall hay.

I took the path behind,

The one that leads to the big rock,

The one we climbed once between cousins.

On the way,

I discovered a blueberry patch through some old burnt trees.

I was picking with my full hand,

And the blueberries were large and abundant.

Suddenly I felt the presence of my mother's family,

My father's family,

And of the Innu people,

Who were all picking the fruit,

Some from resale,

Others for sustenance.

I felt the joy of transformation,

The pies,

The upside-down cakes,

The value of working with nature.

She told me she'd always be there for us,

Even if some years are harder than others.

As I lift my head,

I catch a glimpse of Mother Bear.

She's out picking too.

We are such close relatives.

September 28,

Death of Robert,

Our pet fish.

I'm learning,

Thanks to a new course,

How spirits communicate with me.

There are many ways,

Such as energy sensations,

Tastes that come into the mouth,

And smells that go up the nose,

Words whispered in the ear,

Images projected on the screen of my closed eyes.

I realize my clairvoyant gifts so long stifled in the death of my being.

I went into meditation in the forest below with the wild woman.

She took the lead.

She knows the way.

We went down to the very bottom of the path and exited through my root chakra to enter the network of mycorrhizas,

The mycelium.

The gateway was close by,

Under the small river dam at Kwakwesem.

Suddenly we hit a wall.

In front of us was a cement foundation.

It was the foundation of my grandparents' house on my mother's side.

I recognized it.

There were dolls embedded in the cement.

I climbed into my excavator to break the wall,

While the wild woman transformed herself into a prairie dog to dig a network of tunnels under the house.

After freeing the dolls,

We followed the tunnel to emerge at the foot of the region's biggest waterfalls on the other side of the lake.

I remembered that day of our family visit,

The moment when my mother took a break for little Jackie to play photographer,

And a much sadder day in May when my brother floated face down to the surface of the river.

At that very moment,

I felt the arrival of my totemic guides.

One after the other,

Bear,

Wolverine,

Wolf,

Deer,

Moose,

Eagle,

Crow,

Trout,

And landlocked salmon all around me on my shoulders emerging from the land and the water.

All the animals dancing to the rhythm of the drum,

A great reunion,

Like a powwow.

I realized that I again see life coming and going as we danced together.

I discover my powers.

I have many.

I feel life.

I see it.

Instinctively,

I work on my connections with the spirit world.

I have several means of communication too.

For me,

It comes through the senses when I cook,

Clean,

And garden.

I receive more messages now that I listen to them.

Animals have always been close to me,

Especially cats.

My paternal grandmother called me the mother of cats.

I'm also a trout.

I'm a deer.

At my worst,

I had become a huge workhorse,

And sometimes a deer frightened by the car headlights,

Or a trout drowned in a sea of beer.

I'm learning to master my superpowers.

In fact,

Even as a child,

I always dreamed of being Superwoman or the Bionic Woman.

I've come back from the dead again.

But this time,

It's to exist on the side of the living and to stay there.

I'm now fast,

Agile,

Wise,

Farsighted,

Strong,

Courageous,

Changeable,

Light,

Flexible,

Muscular,

Soft,

And warm.

Yes,

A woman.

September 29,

2021,

Fasting day.

I'm getting ready for a divination session,

Setting off to meet my spirit guides.

Barely settled on my cushion,

I feel the presence of my childhood gymnastics teacher.

It brings me back to my body,

The one I've neglected so much by fat wrapping it in immobility.

I ask her how the coming year will unfold,

And she replies,

From one harvest to the next.

She guides me to the stump of the wise tree I met while planting,

Connects it to a near by rock on the mountain,

And points to the top of the falls,

The ones that moored my brother's departure.

From this triangulation,

I was able to pass the center and meet my guide.

I arrived at the gate,

The one guarded by felines of flesh and rock.

On the other side of this door was a garden to which I was invited.

A presence came towards me,

Beautiful and strong.

When I asked her name,

She said,

Diana,

The huntress and goddess of the forest.

She gave me a lesson in archery,

As I,

A Sagittarius,

Had never learned to aim.

She told me that my aim was not to kill,

But to touch hearts with my arrows.

I looked at the tips,

And instead of a sharp flint,

There was a copy of my book at the end of each one.

She gave me control over my broadcast.

Rudely,

She placed a quiver full of arrows and a bow in my hands,

And she said,

Go ahead,

It's up to you.

Diana also had a gift for my wild woman.

She gave her a drum to accompany the rhythm of my heart,

So that I don't get lost in the dark corners of the forest.

On my return,

I could feel my intuition proud of these encounters,

Thus equipped.

I am more responsible for my life,

For the path I'd like to take,

The road less traveled,

The one traced by the caribou.

This afternoon,

I'm going over the messages I received this morning.

I've realized that I have control over my writing.

I don't need a publishing house,

Or even to be published.

I've always walked next to the main street,

So why would my writing be any different?

I can send my book to whomever I like,

The only limit is my ego.

Why should my book be mainstream,

Sitting in a pile next to those of hundreds of other authors in a bookshop near you?

Nah,

I don't think that's what's going to happen.

I'm going to continue my work in the shadows.

My light is only going to shine brighter.

Diana.

I didn't expect it.

Her name appeared in large letters on the curtain of my eyes,

While hearing her name whispered in my ears.

She confirmed this morning's observation.

She taught me to shoot at a target.

Thanks to this meeting,

I regained control of my production and my destination.

Curious,

I did my research on the internets.

Diana is a three-sided deity,

And I've already got the knack of picking multiple numbers.

Yesterday,

All the animals in the forest came to dance with me,

And today,

Their boss was waiting for me in the woods.

Her relationship with bringing children into the world is fantastic.

She refused to have them by remaining a virgin,

Yet she's the one who's called in to help with the birds.

Strong,

Isn't it?

September 30,

2021,

Canada's first National Day of Truth and Reconciliation.

For the occasion,

I threaded orange,

Blue,

And clear crystals,

Like suns,

Moon,

And oceans.

The wind is blowing today,

Taking it my pain and sorrow.

I'm going to fetch some sacred water.

I'm going to collect myself at the river and lay down some origami burstards I folded earlier.

In this way,

I hope to help free a few dolls still trapped in the foundations of this country.

This will be my commemoration,

So I'm getting ready to meet my ancestors.

October 1,

2021.

It was quite a ceremony.

I lost my wicker basket in the river.

I felt many things and told myself many stories.

I feel quite alone in there,

Which is normal as few people live in the water and in the air at the same time.

It's as if I'm reintegrating a part of my soul,

The one I've been hiding.

It's coming back to me.

Sometimes I feel like I'm living somewhere else than everyone else,

Even Phil.

In the early afternoon,

The weather being so fine,

I sat down to enjoy the fragrant alisum,

One of the few flowers still in abundance in this 1st of October.

They smell of honey and almost on every clump,

There's a bee or bumblebee at work.

The flowers are so busy that they move as if caressed by the wind.

I imagine myself in 20 years from now.

I see a lonely old woman with many cats and chickens,

With my herd,

As my paternal grandmother used to say.

I foresee a maze of gardens.

It's a thousand times better than dealing with the humans from whom I distance myself more and more.

Today,

Sitting in solitude in the sanctuary,

I feel I could become a hermit,

But never alone,

Inhabited by all my spirit guides.

Reviews

Completely transfixed and in awe at your storytelling. This is a magical experience.